Corporeal
by N.C. Stormeye
Summary: She knows Death, not Country, is his true bride, but she'll steal him as much as she can. Enjolras/OC. One last story for my "Patria" AU-verse. Rated T for mildly mature content.


**A/N: **Gap-filler in my "Patria" AU. Exploring the feelings of loving a doomed man. Again, occurs in a mix of the Brick and Musical universes. I'm using a dark-haired Enjolras instead of the Brick-canon blond because all my favorite Enjolrases (Enjolrai?) have been dark-haired, with Karimloo being my current favorite.

Timeline for this occurs sometime before the death of Lamarque. It's a bit half-finished-my muse wasn't very strong-but I wanted to explore the little AU I made a bit more. This may be the last I write of Patria, though, but I think it's a fitting enough send-off.

* * *

He is the last person she expects to be knocking at her door.

Actually, it is _their_ door, or so she thinks of it—without his money, she would have never been able to afford even such sparse rooms. Of late, however, only she has been sleeping in the humble bed. _He _has been out, organizing his revolution and martialling support. If he sleeps at all, her fellow _grisettes _tell her, it is in the backroom of the Café Musain. She pictures him slumped over his books and papers, looking both older and younger as he tends to do in sleep.

Tonight, however, he is in her doorway.

"Monsieur Enjolras!"

"Good evening, Patria."

She steps aside to let him in, and he strides past her, shrugging off coat and cravat and waistcoat as he goes to stand in front of a fire that should not be needed this late in spring, except that it has been unseasonably chilly recently. She hurries to fetch him tea, bread, something from her meager stores, but when she offers him a steaming cup he takes only a sip before placing it on the mantel and looking back at the fire.

Her student-revolutionary is looking more like a student tonight, and a tired one. Shadows bruise purple under his eyes and his dark hair looks tousled with the results of much finger-combing. The expression of his face is one of exhaustion, though the vestiges of stubborn strength still echo in the determined set of his jaw and his very military carriage. "It has not gone well today."

"So I gather. You need rest though, _monsieur_."

He has long since given up trying to get her to call him _citoyen_. She has stubbornly clung to the more bourgeois form of address, saying that for all of his claims of _egalité_, he is still much higher than she is in the world, and she insists on giving him the respect due that position. He has vowed to cure her of that perception as soon as the revolution is won, but on nights like this one, she knows victory seems far off to him and her touch and her "_Monsieur"s _are almost a comfort.

Gently, she places her hand on his forearm and leads him to the bed, where they sit, her behind him, rubbing his shoulders until she can feel his muscles begin to relax. Sometimes, this is all they do—soft, soothing touches before sleep overtakes them. Rarely, if ever, is Patria called upon to act as a mistress usually does, but when she is, it is no duty—Enjolras is a passionate individual, and though the vast majority of it is devoted to his cause, there is enough to spare for her; enough so that nights in his arms are more of a comfort than a chore. She understands that though he is in love with his country and his ideals, there are moments (rare though they are) when her lover requires something more corporeal.

He is, after all, still a man.

Tonight, Patria senses, will be one of those times, so after a while she ceases her ministrations to plant a chaste kiss on Enjolras' nape-a kiss that becomes a trail of kisses until he turns to face her. His eyes follow her as she moves further onto the bed until she is reclining, and he watches, silent, as she undoes the fastenings of her nightclothes, shrugging them off in a movement that is not so much immodest as matter-of-fact. He moves towards her as she leans towards him, and they kiss as he doffs his shirt and with a slight kick, divests himself of his shoes.

When they pull apart she laughs at the sight of him in only his trousers and socks—he looks more human, this way; less of an avenging angel and more of a young man. At her laugh, he smiles, before reaching out to stroke her dark red hair, fingers fisting in it as he kisses her again, more intensely this time. His hands move from her hair to her waist, circling it as he pulls her closer to him. She lets out a hum of approval against his lips, before planting kisses along his jaw.

He lets out a low chuckle. "That tickles, Patria." He does not call her _cherie _or _amour _as the others call their women, but that is all right with her—she understands how much her name, or the significance of her name, means to him. There is a slight formality between them, even after what they have been through together, but it is one that is more comforting than awkward—a bit of domesticity for a man who may very well never experience having his own hearth and home.

"My apologies, _monsieur_." She says, smiling against his skin, before leaning back and pulling him on top of her, adjusting her position to accommodate him. She brushes his hair back where it has fallen in his eyes, smiling softly up at him before he kisses her forehead again, then moves to her cheeks, her jaw, and finally her lips. Their hands find each other and intertwine in the kiss, until he pulls her hands around his neck and embraces her.

With a sigh, they are both lost.

Later, after they are spent, she curls around him and strokes his hair. They are both in that quiet, delicate place between sleep and awake-a time where she feels closest to him, closer even than what they have just done.

"Are you feeling better, _Monsieur_?" she whispers. In response, he turns to look at her and smiles. The shadows under his eyes momentarily fade, and in the half-light of the dying fire he looks like the young Apollo she knows again, both like and unlike the man the _grisettes _stand in awe of. It is in these moments that Patria is most afraid. She fears the results of the revolution, but more so she fears the growing attachment between her and Enjolras. She cannot help it, really—circumstances of their arrangement have made some emotions on her part unavoidable, and really, he is so kind as to make it impossible to _feel _for him—but she fears it nonetheless.

"I have another meeting early tomorrow." He mumbles, letting out a resigned sigh.

"What for?"

"To acquire ammunition."

And there it is, a reminder that the war they fight is real and not just some boys playing at battle. There will be guns, and where there are guns there will be gunfire. She traces the line of his arm and imagines the scars it may have after the battle. She places a hand between his shoulder blades, in the area she knows is just behind his heart, and prays a ball will not find him there.

"I worry for you, _monsieur_." She whispers. He shakes his head.

"This is the only way. We either succeed, or die trying. Such is the price we pay for our revolution."

If she were prettier, or more experienced, Patria thinks, she may have a chance of convincing him to drop everything. But then again, he would not be the man he is if she could. His iron resolve, Patria understands, is part of the reason why she cares for him so. That he would march in the face of inevitable doom…

And she knows it is inevitable. Call her a cynic, but for all of Enjolras' charisma as a leader, Patria knows that the people cannot stir in such a force as to compete with the National Guard. At best, her lover will find himself in a cell in _La Force_. More likely, he will not be given even that mercy, should he be caught. He is an agitator, a rebel, guilty of sedition in the highest and most violent degree.

Some nights she wakes up crying from nightmares of having to watch him face the guillotine.

"You are only a student. What do you know of battle?" She says. Enjolras sighs.

"If I will not rise with the people, who will?"

"The others? _Monsieur, _you cannot be the only one."

In response, Enjolras shakes his head. "This task has fallen to me and my friends. I cannot abandon it, nor would I." He turns so that he faces her completely, then cups her cheek, "After all, we fight for the likes of you."

"Would that you didn't have to."

"You must not get so sentimental, Patria. Remember our cause. Remember the freedom we stand for. In the face of that future, our lives count for very little."

With that, he kisses her forehead again and turns over to sleep. Only when Patria is sure that his breaths are even and he can no longer hear her does she reply.

"On the contrary, _monsieur_, I think yours counts for very much."

Such is Patria's lot, to love a man sworn to another. It is not Country, she knows, but Death that is her lover's intended bride, and soon—maybe in a week, maybe in a month, but soon—it will come to claim him.

Until then, however, she hopes to steal him as much as she can.

_Fin_.


End file.
